


the giving of care

by torchsong (brella)



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Shippy Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/pseuds/torchsong
Summary: “If I am having sickness, then—” Petra’s face tenses, and she takes another step, and then another. “Then I will lose my studies, and my training. Everything moves beyond me. I am forgotten. Weak. I must… defeat it.”“I don’t think anything can defeat the flu except sleeping,” Caspar says. “Like, a lot of sleeping. And medicine. Probably.”Petra has the flu, and Caspar has a good heart.





	the giving of care

**Author's Note:**

> I'm running a hurt/comfort meme on writing Twitter and Catie prompted "fever" + whatever I'm currently feeling in FE3H. I'm fond of these two and their support so far has given me Much To Think About.

“Can you walk?” Caspar asks. 

“Yes,” says Petra, with earth-halting confidence—and then she wobbles halfway through her first step down the hallway. 

Caspar’s hand flies to her arm in an instant, fingers closing around the joint of her elbow, and holds her up. Even through the fabric, her skin feels hot. Way too hot. 

“Petra, come on, at least let me help you,” Caspar says. Against the old stone, everything has an echo, even something like this, something softer and smaller than it needs to be. “Are you _sure_ Professor Manuela said you’re okay to go back to your room?” 

“Yes,” Petra replies. The concentration seizing her face is as steely as ever, but she’s speaking breathlessly, and her forehead is shiny. “You are good to have worry for me, Caspar. But I am fine. The dormitory is not far. Besides, I do not want to rest.” 

She takes another step and Caspar has no choice but to follow, still holding her arm. The dormitory _is_ far, but saying so would feel nitpicky—Linhardt-ish—so he lets it be. 

“Don’t wanna rest? But Petra—” 

“I cannot be slowing down,” she interrupts, its stroke as sharp and clean as a sword’s. It cuts to the heart of everything—and Caspar sees it all at once, in the stark gray midwinter light, and feels like an idiot. 

“If I am having sickness, then…” Petra’s face tenses, and she takes another step, and then another. “Then I will lose my studies, and my training. Everything—moves beyond me. I am forgotten. Weak. I must… defeat it.” 

“I don’t think anything can defeat the flu except sleeping,” Caspar says. “Like, a lot of sleeping. And medicine. Probably.”

As they walk slowly down the last stretch of the hallway, passing through the shafts of overcast light from the narrow windows, Caspar keeps his eyes on their feet. Petra’s steps are slow and lurching, but they follow a straight, true line. The weight of her rests easily against his side. The heat from her fever fills the space between their faces, and its presence by his cheek has a weight of its own, a touch almost. He adjusts his grip on her arm when it starts to slip, and she leans a little closer, breathing thinly out. 

“What is it you call this—the flu?” She turns her head to him. Her voice is scratchy. “I do not know how it is called in Brigid.” 

“The… the flu? It’s, uh…” Caspar cranes his neck like the ceiling will have the right answer. “It’s what you have. Fever, chills, coughing… you know, worse than a cold, but better than pneumonia?” 

Petra’s brow furrows, her nose wrinkling a little under it. It’s cute. Caspar pushes that thought far, far down. 

“Must I sleep?” she asks, doubtful. “Can I not just take… the medicine?” 

“I guess you could,” Caspar says, “if you wanted. But pushing yourself usually makes it worse, or at least makes it last longer.” He squeezes her arm, unthinking. “Besides, nothing’s gonna move beyond you. At all. Training and studying’ll always be there, trust me. Everybody gets sick, Petra. They don’t throw you out for it.” 

He can already tell that his answer hasn’t satisfied her. Petra gets this look, sometimes—it’s in her eyes, and the word for it is one he does not know. He remembers it from the training room, remembers it from the dining hall, remembers it from a sunny afternoon, when she had told him that she missed the sea. Something between loneliness and anger. 

“Look, if you’re worried,” he says before he can think on the meaning of it, “I’ll take care of you.” 

Petra lifts her head, her eyes widening by an increment. Caspar’s cheeks crawl with a sudden, prickling heat—maybe she’s that contagious? 

“You will?” she croaks. 

Caspar gulps, going rigidly through the motions of a nod. Petra watches the movement with the same care and attention that she watches ripples in the pond, wind in the trees. Like it reminds her of something. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know, and you’ve taught me a lot—a-and I’ve been a bit of an ass. The least I can do is, you know, make you some hot tea. Read you a story? I don’t know.”

Petra stops walking. She’s still watching him. They’re almost to the courtyard—Caspar can hear birds, and voices. When Petra breathes, he feels it. 

She doesn’t move, for a second or two. Then, gradually, she smiles, and drops her head onto his shoulder. 

“You are good, Caspar,” she murmurs, gentle and grateful, into the air under his chin. “You are very good.”


End file.
